


the tidal wave of being

by ohdeariemegoodness



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Other, Outer Space, Secret Solenoid, Sparring, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohdeariemegoodness/pseuds/ohdeariemegoodness
Summary: Megatron doesn't need archival access to know what he wants.
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 26
Kudos: 186
Collections: Secret Solenoid '19-'20





	the tidal wave of being

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perictione (leclairage)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leclairage/gifts).



> A Secret Solenoid gift for [perictione](https://perictione.tumblr.com/). The prompt was: “Mass amnesia. The usual mistaken identity shenanigans, followed by getting their memories back and going 'uh oh'."

“He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate cable, joint, and motor relay in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars.”

-Jack London, _The Call of the Wild_ , trans. ohdeariemegoodness

* * *

Megatron wakes to an unfamiliar ceiling, a pounding processor, and an inexplicable feeling of deep irritation; the feeling quickly becomes explicable when external input fully loads, and he realizes that another Cybertronian is _recharging_ on him. 

Megatron immediately shoves the unnecessarily large mech off, sending him clanging onto the floor in a clatter of red and blue armor. He sits up, rubbing his face in an attempt to distract his pain circuitry from his processor. From the floor, he can hear the other mech groaning awake. 

“Who the hell are you?” Megatron demands. He sends an internal query for a sit-rep, tired of waiting for the information to load manually through the miserable ache of his processor’s clearly overloaded circuitry. 

“What?” the mech asks, vocalizer staticy with recharge. 

Megatron’s query comes back empty a moment later. “I don’t have access to my internal archives,” Megatron realizes, rounding on the other mech. 

“Who are you?” the mech asks. 

“Megatron,” Megatron snaps. “And you have five astroseconds to explain who you are and what you’re doing here before I make it _irrelevant_.” He raises his cannon-arm threateningly, cannon automatically humming up to power; whatever information is locked up in his archives, he isn’t _entirely_ helpless. 

“My designation is Optimus,” Optimus says, after a moment. “I apologize, but it appears that I don’t have access to my archives, either.” 

“Hm,” Megatron says, glaring suspiciously down at him, taking note of the distinctive symbol on Optimus’s chest plates—a quick glance confirms that it’s different from the symbol embossed on Megatron’s own plating—and the strangely empty quarters they’ve found themselves in. It isn’t a prison, clearly; the room reeks of temporary officer’s quarters, filled with cheap, standardized furniture, a single rest unit, and no personal effects in view. 

Megatron stands stands up decisively and walks toward the door, which opens easily at Megatron’s ping, keyed to his presence. He turns back to look at Optimus, starting to get a feel for the situation: the room is not Megatron’s, but it responds to his commands, so he must be an officer at the very least; he feels the power humming through his body, cannon still ready to fire, and decides that if he isn’t this ship’s commander yet, he’s going to be by the end of this. Optimus, on the other hand, is wearing a different symbol, but is clearly designed for war as much as Megatron is. Megatron wonders darkly if their current condition is the result of an assassination attempt gone wrong. 

“I don’t know what’s happened, but I intend to find out,” Megatron says. “You’ll come with me, intruder.” 

“Intruder?” Optimus asks. “How do you know _you’re_ not the intruder?”

“The door responds to me,” Megatron tells him. “That means this is my ship.” And if it isn’t his yet, it _will_ be. 

“The door responds to me as well,” Optimus says, after attempting his own ping. “Why does one of us have to be an intruder?” 

“We’re wearing opposing insignia,” Megatron tells him. 

“ _Different_ insignia. And why can’t we be allied?” Optimus asks. “Or perhaps we simply have different manufacturers, or different castes. It doesn’t make sense for us to be here together, otherwise. We clearly weren’t fighting,” he adds, and indicates his own mildly dented frame; admittedly, there is no true battle damage. 

“We’re both dented,” Megatron points out, anyway. 

“And _recharging together,_ ” Optimus says. Megatron glares at him, not liking the implication. 

“Come on,” Optimus says, after a moment. “You’re right, we can’t get to the bottom of things in here.” He starts walking to the door, and Megatron quickly steps in front of him, taking the lead. 

They’ve only made it a few steps when an undersized yellow mech pops out of an adjoining hallway. He’s wearing the same insignia as Optimus. 

“I’m Bumblebee,” he says, introducing himself quickly. “Did either of you retain access to your archives?” 

Optimus shakes his head. “I’m afraid not,” he says. “The issue isn’t limited to Megatron and I, then?” 

“No,” Bumblebee says, “so far everyone we’ve found on the ship has been affected, me included. Let me take you to the infirmary so Ratchet can check you out. He’s the ship’s doctor, apparently.” 

Megatron isn’t feeling particularly inclined to visit the infirmary; he’d rather take the command center first. But Optimus leans over and places a warm hand on Megatron’s arm, and his system responds immediately, sending a hot burst of energy shooting through his circuitry. 

“Come on, Megatron,” he says. “Let’s go let this Ratchet give his exam. He should be able to tell us if the memory loss is permanent, at least, and we can figure out where to go from there.”

Megatron concedes the point, a little grudgingly. Tactically, it _will_ be helpful to know if his archives have been wiped as well as made inaccessible.

“Very well,” Megatron says, and lets Bumblebee guide them out of the officer’s level. As soon as they get to the infirmary, they’re accosted by a red and white mech, shoulders emblazoned with medical crosses—and Optimus’s red insignia on his chest plates. 

“You two need to get scanned,” the medic says. “Come on, take an exam table.” 

“This is Ratchet,” Bumblebee says. “He’s the doctor. And this is Soundwave,” he adds, pointing at a blue mech almost Megatron’s size, the first mech he’s seen so far with his own purple insignia. 

“Soundwave will take the scan,” Megatron decides, eyeing Ratchet suspiciously. “I won’t have enemies in my systems.” 

“I don’t think we _are_ enemies,” Ratchet says. “The insignia are directly correlated with brain configuration. I think they’re functional identifiers.” 

“What do you mean, they’re correlated with brain configuration?” Megatron asks. He sits down on an exam table by Soundwave and opens a port for him. 

“I mean they’re correlated with brain configuration,” Ratchet says, plugging into Optimus. “Your and Soundwave’s insignia is correlated with a six layered, shielded emotional subsystem and a core-attached stress-management module that links directly to your motivator, obviously designed for combat. The red insignia Optimus, Bumblebee and I are wearing is correlated with a more civilian brain structure—we all have an unlayered emotional subsystem with limited shielding and a dedicated emotional coprocessor, integrated with a core empathy module.” 

“He’s clearly not a civilian,” Megatron says, indicating Optimus. Soundwave initiates his own scan, and Megatron is surprised by his system’s response, neural access gates opening easily to Soundwave’s apparently familiar presence. 

“A lot of us have been retrofitted with weaponry,” Ratchet says. “And Optimus has had a rebuild.” He unplugs, and Optimus turns to face Megatron more fully. 

“I do suspect we’re at war, but not with each other,” Optimus says. “The ship responds to both of us, and there isn’t evidence of a hostile takeover—the hallways are clear, the infirmary is well-organized, and no one we’ve encountered so far, including the two of us, has fresh battle damage. But you are right that I’m no more a civilian than you are, whatever I might have been before.” 

“Scan complete,” Soundwave says, interrupting. “Virus confirmed.”

“Confirmed in Optimus as well,” Ratchet says, unplugging. “We’ve found evidence of a viral attack in every Cybertronian on the ship so far,” he explains, to Megatron and Optimus. “None of us have access to our internal archives, although as far as we can tell, memory storage is intact. We all clearly still have subconscious access to procedural memory, since no one has forgotten how to open doors or perform functional tasks, but experiential memories simply aren’t accessible.” 

“This viral attack, have we identified its source?” Megatron questions. 

“Not yet,” Ratchet shakes his head. “Soundwave and I are working on it; we have all the scans we need, but without archival access, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to positively identify the enemy.”

“What of the ship’s archives?” Optimus asks, before Megatron can. 

“Soundwave has already confirmed that the ship’s archives have been wiped,” Ratchet tells him, shaking his head. “All the engineers we’ve found are working on restoring them, but we don’t have high hopes.” 

“Soundwave, Ratchet, will determine transmission vector, code structure,” Soundwave says. “This information, can be reverse engineered to reclaim archival access. However, viral attack, most likely precursor to physical attack by unknown enemy. Without archival access, danger significant. Suggestion: Megatron, Optimus, report to command center, prepare for possible attack.”

The attack comes, in fact, almost as soon as they make it to the command center; they go through a round of introductions, and then Megatron just barely has time to size up and dismiss Ultra Magnus as a potential rival—despite his size and obvious power, he’s clearly lacking the necessary ambition, and is quick to cede command—before the outer shielding alarms start blaring. 

“I can’t even _find_ the control panel for the shielding,” one of the engineers, Wheeljack, yells over the noise. “I didn’t even know it was up!” 

“Well, I’m not complainin’ about that,” Ironhide says. “Now let’s just find the controls for the _guns_.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be a civilian?” One of Megatron’s mechs—Starscream—asks snidely. 

“Enough bickering,” Megatron says. “The targeting system should be found easily enough. Hook,” he selects an engineer at random, “you work on gaining control of the shielding.”

Hook immediately dives back under the control panel he’d been working on, just as one of Optimus’s mechs manages to get visuals up on the main screen.

“We’re outnumbered,” Optimus says, grim. 

They are—Megatron counts six enemy vessels, and the ship at the center of the enemy fleet is significantly larger than their own appears to be. 

“I think we can identify the source of the viral attack, at least,” Optimus says, after a moment. 

Megatron snorts. “Very helpful,” he says. 

Mechs have been trickling into the command center, drawn by the blare of the alarms and the sudden bombardment from the enemy ships, and Megatron turns to face them. 

“We have no archival access—and beyond that, no intel, no communications, and no working command structure. But we are warriors yet. If what we have is procedural memory, then that is what we must rely on,” he announces. “You should all still retain functional knowledge. Ready your energy weapons and prepare to defend the ship!” 

Beside him, Optimus nods. “There is no alternative,” he agrees, pulling his own blaster out of subspace in preparation. “Soundwave and Ratchet are laboring to reverse the viral attack, but in the meantime, we must all carry on and do our best to let procedural memory guide our actions. If any of you have questions, I will do my best to answer them.” 

“ _I_ have a question,” Starscream says. “Why are _you_ giving orders? I think first of all, we need to establish a leader. For all any of us know, _I’m_ the commander of this ship.” 

Megatron snorts. “If you’d like to lay down a formal challenge, I’m happy to oblige,” he tells Starscream, letting his optics brighten as his systems power into combat mode.

“There’s no need for this,” Optimus says, stepping between them with his hands up. “Starscream, Megatron, surely our command structure can remain cooperative until our archives have been unlocked—” 

Starscream snorts and initiates his own combat routines, both of them ignoring Optimus’s unnecessary attempt at peacekeeping, when the shielding suddenly fails. 

“The outer shielding has been breached!” an unidentified purple and green mech yells, and throws the location coordinates out on an open data channel. 

“I think I can get the shielding reactivated, if you can buy me a few astrominutes,” Hook calls from his position wired into the control panel. “Wheeljack, do you have the targeting system up?” 

“Yes, sending permissions now,” Wheeljack says, and Megatron reaches forward instinctively, knowing where the controls must be, and Wheeljack finally gets the targeting overlay up just as Megatron hooks into the ship’s external weaponry. 

Almost immediately, Soundwave’s voice comes over his communications array, relaying enemy movements for analysis. Megatron has to fight not to lose himself in the battle, the synced input from the ship its own heady rush even without physical contact, but he keeps himself separate, maintaining a tactical view and issuing orders as necessary. It isn’t long before the outer shielding eclipses the ship once more, and Megatron quickly dispatches warriors to detain any enemy warriors caught within their shield. 

Afterwards, Optimus calls for a war council, inviting all those who consider themselves tactically inclined. There are entirely too many mechs at the table, but Megatron doesn’t know enough of their capabilities yet to sort between them, so he allows it. 

They speak for some time of the battle, and the captured enemy combatants—all drones directed by a limited artificial intelligence, rendering interrogation pointless—before Megatron turns the conversation to preemptive offensive planning. 

“I find myself hesitant to field warriors in uncertain combat,” Optimus says, “but I see no alternative if we are attacked. However, it may be possible to further augment the current shielding, to buy more time for Soundwave and Ratchet and avoid further combat. I suggest the engineers focus their creative powers on defensive shielding.” 

“Our defensive options are resource-limited,” an engineer named Perceptor says. “The ship’s power supply isn’t precisely infinite, and we require energon for rations as well. Shielding at full power, we have enough supply for approximately eighteen additional Cybertronian days. Based on our current supply, I suspect we were attacked en-route to a refueling location.”

“We can’t just wait around like sittin' cyberducks forever,” Jazz says, and Megatron agrees. He instructs those with dedicated tactical coprocessors to devise offensive options and bring them for review, and in the meantime, sets his own tactical coprocessor to analyze what little intelligence they _do_ have available. Although interrogation had been unsuccessful, the brief battle had given them some understanding of the drones’ capabilities, as well as the tactical inclinations of the enemy. 

Conveniently, Megatron finds over the next few days of siege that a hostile takeover isn’t necessary; it’s easy to establish command with the other warriors, especially those wearing his insignia, although he suspects Starscream is still planning a takeover of his own. No matter—Megatron is prepared to meet him. He briefly entertains the idea of issuing his _own_ challenge, but Optimus proves willing to spar on a daily basis, pushing Megatron to the glorious limits of his own physical power; if not for his already significant energon demands, Megatron might demand they do so _twice_ a day. 

It isn’t long before Wheeljack, Hook, and Starscream come to Megatron with a matter-distortion device and a plan. 

“Once activated, the device should cause a temporary influx of dark matter, creating a massively dense point in space,” Wheeljack says. “If we can get it placed in the center ship, it _should_ implode most of their fleet.” 

“Of course, we’ll need to be prepared to retreat as soon as the device is activated,” Hook says. “Otherwise, we’ll be pulled in as well.” 

Megatron approves the device, and instructs Starscream to create a plan of battle. 

“We’ll need a diversionary tactic,” Starscream says confidently. “Perhaps you and Optimus can plant the device while I direct aerial bombardment.” 

“Optimus and I will lead the assault,” Megatron says, not falling for that, “and _I’ll_ be holding on to the device’s controller. Ping me when you have an actual plan drawn up.” He dismisses them and goes to find Optimus and drag him to the training room, systems already humming in anticipation. 

Starscream develops a plan to feign a desperate, last-minute assault, and Scrapper spends the next two days simulating the increasingly frequent flicker of a disintegrating shield while Wheeljack and Hook make last minute alterations to their device. Finally, Scrapper holds the shielding down for a solid ten astroseconds, as if they are having to connect it to a back-up generator, and they launch a boarding team for the diversionary assault. 

Megatron and Optimus fight back to back in the enemy ship, Megatron destroying wide swaths of the drone army with every blast of his cannon, Optimus mowing through them with his battle axe as soon as they come into range, their systems synchronizing in vicious harmony. Megatron laughs aloud as input narrows down to the pure physical rush of his body, his systems aligning in pursuit of destruction. When they get the call for retreat from Soundwave, indicating that Starscream has implanted Wheeljack and Hook’s device in the ship’s engine, Megatron almost returns a refusal, not wanting to leave the sheer joy of battle behind. Pragmatism, however, takes over, and Megatron reluctantly redirects the power flow from his cannon and follows Optimus out of the ship, transforming and shooting Optimus a tow line as they enter the silent vacuum of space. 

Megatron’s systems are still charged up when they get back to the ship, and he waits impatiently for Wheeljack and Hook to reactivate the shielding and start their chain of destruction. Still, he watches with vicious satisfaction as the primary enemy ship implodes, folding in on itself, dragging the others along with it—a few of the ships on the outskirts make warp, but most of the inner fleet is dragged inexorably inwards. 

When it becomes clear that the destruction will take some time, he turns to Optimus, who is standing beside him with his own systems still running hot on infrared. 

“A spar, perhaps?” Megatron asks. 

After a moment of indecision, Optimus nods. “Best to get this charge out of our systems,” he says, a little wryly. 

Megatron laughs. “It’s only practical,” he agrees, and he leaves Soundwave and Ultra Magnus in command before they retreat to the primary training room. 

Optimus doesn’t bother with the simulator, just throws down his weapons. Megatron removes his own cannon and initiates an attack sequence without need for further discussion, his systems still primed for the rush of close combat. 

They don’t bother circling at a distance, coming in close right away and trading blows for several long minutes before Megatron gets in a throw. Optimus rolls up and headbuts Megatron in the abdomen, nearly taking him down. Megatron regains his balance, and pushes Optimus back with a flurry of jabs, catching him in the shoulder once with a satisfying clang. 

Optimus takes advantage of the sudden pause to go for a grapple, pulling Megatron down onto the mat, but Megatron gets a leg behind him and twists them over. He takes Optimus’s wrists, forcing a knee between his legs to keep him from establishing enough leverage to reverse their positions, and lets out a triumphant laugh. 

Optimus laughs as well, battlemask sliding open, and Megatron becomes suddenly, vividly aware of the press of Optimus’s body, the heat of his plating against Megatron’s own. 

“Oh,” Optimus says, almost shocked, and the data access panel on his side slides open suddenly. Megatron plugs in instantly, his motivator issuing the command before his rationality centers can even evaluate the impulse, but he doesn’t want to stop. They _are_ already recharging together, as Optimus had so helpfully pointed out when they first woke up—certainly this is nothing new between them. 

Optimus grants him neural access with a pleased groan, and Megatron reciprocates, letting Optimus into his neural centers, his sensory subsystem, and Optimus activates his pleasure circuits mercilessly, even as Megatron does the same—even as Megatron pushes for deeper access, and lets Optimus in as well, a glorious, fathomless sharing, made deeper for the lack of archival substructures in the way. Their systems sync even as far as autonomic functions, their power systems cycling in concert, and Megatron opens up the final neural gate, letting Optimus _in_ , and Optimus groans and writhes beneath him, sending a rush of pure emotional pleasure skittering across Megatron’s circuitry. Megatron leans in, letting Optimus feel his intentions to do this over and over, to have him like this every _day_ , and—

“Megatron!” a mech cries, tapping frantically on Megatron’s backplate. 

Megatron turns to face him with a furious roar, overload dropping out of his systems almost instantly, but the tiny mech scrambles backwards before Megatron can get a hold of him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” the mech cries. “I tried pinging you but it wouldn’t go through, and Soundwave—I—”

“Spit it out,” Megatron growls, unplugging from Optimus furiously. The contacts for the cannon on his arm are warming. 

“Soundwave and Ratchet found a way to get archival access back,” the mech says. “I’m really sorry, Megatron, but I think you’re gonna—you’re really gonna want your memories back—we already got ours when Soundwave did, I’m Frenzy, by the way, but can you just come to the infirmary, I’m supposed to bring you to the infirmary, please don’t slag me—” 

“Megatron is not going to hurt you,” Optimus interrupts, sounding entirely too confident for Megatron’s taste. “Come on, Megatron, we should report to the infirmary. We can continue this once our archival access has been restored.” 

Frenzy makes an odd, high-pitched noise, but he doesn’t say anything, just darts out of the room, presumably headed for the infirmary. Optimus chuckles and stands up, running a hand down Megatron’s arm as he does so. 

Megatron glares at him, but now that they’ve already been interrupted, they might as well. He follows Optimus grudgingly out of the training room, reattaching his cannon on the way out. 

The ship’s inhabitants are lined out of the infirmary, clearly waiting to have their archival access restored as well, but Megatron pushes past them easily, ignoring Optimus’s protests. Inside, Frenzy is hiding behind Soundwave. 

Megatron sits down heavily on an exam table, and Soundwave comes over to him. Ratchet is busy having the rest of the infirmary evacuated, except for Bumblebee, who is already integrating the archival access program.

“That isn’t really necessary,” Optimus says, but Ratchet shakes his head. 

“It really is,” he says, darkly, and has Optimus sit down on an exam table. 

Soundwave leads Megatron over to his own exam table, and plugs in quickly, transferring an encapsulated program for his core processor to execute. Soundwave unplugs, and Megatron stares impatiently at him while it integrates. 

His systems return a completion notice, and Megatron stills under the flood of memory as his archives unlock: the long eight million years of civil war, their makeshift alliance against the Quintessons, the strange virus that left them staggering around uncontrollably for hours before shutdown. His first clear reaction is one of triumph—the ship _is_ his after all—and he turns to Optimus, intending to gloat, when his personality components suddenly adjust, and he’s hit with the instant realization that he and Optimus had—they had—Megatron had given Optimus _tertiary access_. 

He makes optical contact with Optimus just as the same realization clearly hits _him_ , and they both sit there frozen for a long moment before Megatron stands up, no clear objective in his mind except to _get away_. 

“Megatron, wait,” Optimus says, and Megatron looks back at him, almost unwillingly. 

“Megatron, we don’t—” Optimus stops, runs an exhaust cycle. “This doesn’t have to interrupt our plans,” he says after a moment, almost tentatively. “Not if you—if you don’t want it to.” 

Reflexively, Megatron starts to issue a denial, but his motivator cuts off power to his vocalizer before he can speak. He runs a query, trying to understand what he’s thinking, and his systems nearly stall on the _enormous_ positive value he’d unknowingly assigned his half-completed interface with Optimus. Megatron realizes in a moment of pure horror that—he _doesn’t_ want to interrupt their plans; he wants to take Optimus back to his quarters and have him for fifty hours straight, he wants to rub his fingers into Optimus’s ports, he wants to barrel through every layer of neural access and feel Optimus on his _primary components_ , and he’s—he’s _going_ to. The remaining negative valuation that _had_ been locked up in his archives isn’t enough to stop him. 

“Ngh,” Megatron says, nearly shocked into admitting it, and Optimus’s illumination routines go dark and low, and he reaches for Megatron, _opens_ for him, and Megatron can do nothing but press him back against the table and take his mouth. His emotional subsystem manages to overcome its shielding and floods his system with bright, vicious joy, a sheer shock of emotional pleasure rocketing through his circuitry. 

“What the hell,” he hears Bumblebee say, vaguely, and is only peripherally aware of the sudden exodus from the infirmary, Soundwave and Ratchet hurrying Bumblebee out, although he does feel Optimus going hot with embarrassment beneath him. 

“Maybe we should take this somewhere more private,” Optimus says, after clearly running a vocalizer reboot cycle. “I’m sure Ratchet would appreciate having his infirmary back.” 

“Ratchet can wait,” Megatron says, rubbing one thumb into the corner of Optimus’s mouth, and drags the other against the exposed edge of Optimus’s jaw. Optimus lets out a low moan at the sensation, his ventral port sliding open, and Megatron leans into him with a groan, overtaken by the sudden rush of triumphant pleasure. 

“No, no,” Optimus says, pushing weakly at Megatron as he struggles to sit up. “To your quarters, Megatron, and you can have me there,” and Megatron feels his own illumination routines go dark at the sudden sensory image of Optimus in quarters, laid out on _his_ recharge unit, and—

“Yes,” Megatron manages, low, “ _after_ I’ve had you here,” and Optimus laughs and falls into him again. 

The near-overload from earlier has both of their systems running hot, and it takes only a few moments to reach that cliff again, Optimus lowering his neural access gates one by one, and Megatron doing the same, activating pain and pleasure circuitry without care, letting his fingers feel where their bodies are joined together, the lubricant just barely swelling out of the port and smearing onto the plating beside it. 

It isn’t the same uncomplicated pleasure as before, but something in Megatron rears up dark and satisfied as he gains access to _Optimus’s_ archives, tearing through recent memories—his hope and trepidation, signing the agreement for their temporary alliance; his tentative hopes for their future, which Megatron dismisses snidely, and only belatedly realizes that he’s granted reciprocal access, that Optimus is suddenly able to reach thousands of archived strategies, all the interrupted thought processes that Megatron lost when the virus hit— 

“Don’t, please,” Optimus gasps, when Megatron starts to push him away, and he opens up tertiary access once more. Megatron tumbles into the terrifying well of Optimus’s very being, the almost unimaginable sense of joy and hope and pleasure, and loses what little control he has left, pushing them both over the edge. 

Afterwards, they both fall over on the exam table, which groans a little alarmingly under the weight. 

“Of course the first thing you’d decide on was a hostile takeover,” Optimus chuckles, once he’s gotten his vocalizer sorted back out. 

“I haven’t dismissed the possibility,” Megatron growls, but Optimus just laughs again. 

“Come here,” he says, pulling Megatron to him, as if they could be any closer. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Megatron tells him, but he can feel his own systems integrating the experience with determined speed, recklessly assigning positive values and reevaluating long-term strategic goals. He tries to manually preempt the process, but his emotional subsystem is operating independently, outside of conscious control, and when queried his motivator offers up only two options: have Optimus again here, or take him back to his quarters—to _Megatron’s_ quarters, not the random officer’s suite they’ve been occupying. 

Megatron turns his head to glare at Optimus, but the effect is weakened slightly by the sudden bolt of lust that rockets through his systems at the sight of Optimus’s uncovered face. Megatron realizes, terribly, that he might be—happy, with this: his greatest enemy finally surrendered to his possession, if not exactly in the manner he’d _previously_ fantasized about. 

“I hate you,” he tells Optimus, not without feeling. 

“I know,” Optimus says, and pats him patronizingly on the arm. Megatron lets his head fall back down on the table with a clank. 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [perictione](https://perictione.tumblr.com/) for the fantastic prompt—I hope you enjoyed!! And to everyone else, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you thought <3


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